


Red, The Paint of Angry Dads

by Unknown



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Daddy!E, Daddy!R, Kid!Fic, M/M, Modern Era, Shenanigans
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-27
Updated: 2014-03-27
Packaged: 2018-01-17 06:43:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 905
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1377679
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Unknown/pseuds/Unknown
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Daddy!R who’s not even remotely angry when he finds a big red handprint on his painting but just insists that it’s prettier that way after Enjolras forces their kid to apologize and Enjolras’ chest just tightens with how much he loves him when he sees Grantaire dip his hand into the paint and puts his own handprint next to their kid’s and he doesn’t even care that Grantaire gets paint on his favorite sweater when he grabs his wrist and makes him do the same.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Red, The Paint of Angry Dads

**Author's Note:**

  * For [newtmasdoesthedo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/newtmasdoesthedo/gifts).



> Taken [here](http://drinkwithmegrantaire.tumblr.com/post/79050469255/au-headcanon) on tumblr.

__Agnes’ big hazel eyes fill with tears as she uses a little pudgy fist to rub her little red nose, catching a strand of dark, rusty brown hair curling at her temples. Her lower lip quivers as she smears some of the red paint on her hand onto her dark cheek. She looks woefully at the half finished painting with a tiny, dripping red handprint smeared onto it.

Grantaire can’t stop smiling.

“Well?” Enjolras says, hands on his hips, one foot tapping expectantly. Agnes sniffles again and Enjolras would feel bad, but she needs to learn and this isn’t the worst fate she could have.

“Sorry Baba,” Agnes squeaks out, eyes wide on Grantaire. She tilts her head back to look at Enjolras. “Sorry, Da. I sorry.” She ducks her head in shame, wiping her red hand on her paint-stained, denim overalls, her tiny bare foot rubbing its toes into the hardwood of the floor. “I jus’… I wan’ed paint too.”

Grantaire lets out a bellowing laugh which either erases the seriousness of the apology or else tears down their daughter’s self-esteem as she thinks she’s being mocked for it. Enjolras thinks it’s the first as Agnes brushes tears away with the back of her hand and looks up at Grantaire, waiting for an explanation.

 “It’s prettier that way,” Grantaire says, kneeling in front of her, pushing the paint supplies to the side and gesturing to the canvas. It _had_ been a sunset. Now, it had the red handprint right where the horizon met the edge of the Seine. Agnes, however, shakes her head at her father’s words.

“I… rew… rin… rooen…” She struggles to find the word and Enjolras frowns, kneeing as well.

“Ruined?” he says, a bit horrified that she’s taking it so hard on herself. He had just wanted her to learn that she couldn’t waltz up and mess with her father’s work.

But she nods. “ _Dat_. I did dat to…” She waves at the painting, looking so distressed.

“No, no, it is, it is, darling,” Grantaire insists, bopping her on the nose and getting a shy smile. “It looks so much prettier that way. I promise.”

She squints at him, unconvinced. “Les Amis’ Honour?” she asks and Enjolras laughs. Courfeyrac had taught her that, how to get someone to tell the truth or keep a promise. Les Amis’ Honour, as he called it, right after her Da who always told the truth and never broke his word. Grantaire shoots a sweet smile to her and holds a hand to his chest right above his heart.

“Les Amis' Honour,” he agrees. At that, he gets a gap toothed smile of happiness in return. Grantaire laughs and kisses her cheek with a noisy smacking noise, Agnes screeching in mock horror at it. She hops into Enjolras lap and turns to her Da, holding his face in her hands, two pudgy palms pressed to his cheeks.

“You mad, Da?” she asks, eyes big and woeful as Grantaire chuckles behind her. Enjolras can’t help the smile that comes to his face. His chest hurts with how much he loves his family.

“No, I am not,” Enjolras says.

“Why?”

“Because you apologized to your Baba and that is a good thing. Just like a big girl.” He knows he’s said the right thing when Agnes puffs out her little, thin chest and lifts her delicate chin.

“I’m a big girl,” she says proudly and Enjolras chuckles, blowing a raspberry into the skin of her exposed neck, holding her close as she giggles hysterically. Then she stops and whispers, “I mest it up, doe.”

“No you didn’t!” Grantaire sing-songs and then he’s dipping his hand into the paint and slapping a red handprint of his own on the canvas. He turns to Enjolras’ and Agnes’ shocked faces and smiles. “See. I told you so. Perfect.” Enjolras feels his chest get tight again and his heart skip a beat as Grantaire’s handprint drips next to their daughter’s. She claps in delight and clambers off of Enjolras’ lap to get a closer work at their familial masterpiece.

And then Grantaire is coming toward him and saying, “Well, not perfect yet, I should say.” Enjolras knows what’s coming and lets it happen, even as Grantaire gets paint on the sleeve of his favourite jumper when he dips Enjolras’ palm in and makes him do the same, pressing his palm to the canvas on the other side of Agnes’, her tiny hand protected on both sides by her parents’.

Grantaire is smiling and laughing along with her, making Enjolras gasp for breath at the emotions grappling in his chest before he pulls his husband down by the waist of his tracksuit bottoms and kisses him soundly on the mouth. Grantaire tastes like coffee and acrylic paint, like cigarette smoke and the buttermilk pancakes they all had for breakfast. Agnes squeals beside them and then jumps onto their sides, breaking them apart and giggling her little three and a half year old head off.

All in all, pretty par for the course on a Saturday afternoon with the family, Enjolras concludes. He smiles and realizes that Grantaire had been correct: it is perfect. And as Grantaire chases Agnes around pretending to be a monster that his glorious daughter-knight can slay, Enjolras surmises that it is going to be this way for a good long time.

And there is nothing he wants more.


End file.
